Blood Betrayal
by lili brik
Summary: The shadowy pasts, and intertwined fates, of Mara Jade, the Emperor's Hand, and Dash Rendar, heir to RenTrans, and smuggler extraordinaire...
1. Too Coincidental

A/N: Yes, this is a rehash of an old story. Yes, this one aspires to be better than that old story—hopefully, it is!  
  
After having lived in Coruscant for the majority of her adult life, Mara Jade automatically felt at home in most parts of that huge city-planet—but, she had to admit, not all. Like any other large city, it had its decrepit underbelly. She had a long relationship with this part of the metropolis—one that stretched back to some of her earliest memories.  
  
But that was hardly an asset anymore. That past may well have been the life of an entirely different person—at least, it often felt like that anymore. Mara did not remember what it was like to be self-conscious in a place like this; a booth in some sleazy bar on Coruscant's lowest level. She looked to fit in enough—she'd kept her familiarity with disguise up over the years, and she was dressed poorly enough not to suggest any ties with the New Republic's higher offices.  
  
After all, her skills notwithstanding, she didn't want to be a target for muggers. After all, once they provoked her to fighting—well, that would certainly draw unsolicited attention towards her—and to Luke, whom she'd brought along for the occasion.  
  
Not that he didn't have reasons of his own for coming. Mara had heard the story once before, when something in their conversation provoked them to discuss the Empire's diamond plated missiles that they'd begun using shortly after the Battle of Hoth. Evidently, Luke had an apology to make; one that he'd nearly forgotten about over the years. After all, you can't apologize to the dead.  
  
It was all rather funny, though, in a quasi-morbid way. The person the Skywallkers had come to meet tonight was not dead, but they had each once thought him so, for considerably different reasons. Luke had thought he'd seen him die, back when he'd assassinated Prince Xizor and wiped out Black Sun with one well-placed missile. And Mara—well, she'd always known her parents were dead, but she'd never really thought about the rest of her family. Unlike Luke, she didn't seem to have any sort of long-lost twin—honestly, that sort of thing was hardly common, and hardly likely. Coincidences were unlikely enough; coincidences in pairs were nearly impossible.  
  
Still, apparently, it had happened—or so it seemed. The path leading to today's meeting had been a strange one. Strange because , once more, it seemed so unlikely that two people who were incessantly working in the same basic arena of intra-galactic warfare could miss a direct, face-to-face meeting so many times. Of course, Mara had reasoned , it probably had something to do with the fact that the other person in question was presumed dead since just before she met Luke in Jabba's palace..  
  
Honestly, that was quite a long time ago—and Mara was uncertain whether it was in her best interests to dig up that distant past. She had come to terms with it, and with the blood on her hands—must she also come to terms with the blood in her veins?  
  
Jade had always seemed a good enough name for her. She knew it wasn't really her own—she knew that she had no real link with any other 'Jade's in the galaxy, and, somehow, that had been a comforting thought. Of course, taking on the Skywalkers' name had been a bit intimidating—there were millions of associations, both personal and public, to go with that name, and some of them were rather troubling to her.  
  
But this new name—Rendar—was another matter altogether. The Rendars were not a type of person that Mara would have felt at home with—quite rich Corellians, self-made aristocrats—arrogant, super-affluent hotshots whose eldest son, Stanton, had crashed into one of the Emperor's favorite private museums a few years back. The 'accident' had been considered treason, and all of the Rendars were immediately banished from their beloved home planet, and all the rest of the Empire.  
  
Mara remembered Stanton, though vaguely. She remembered his crash a little better. There was a reason why, but now, knowing what she knew, she didn't feel like remembering it. Truthfully, she was ashamed to. And a little frightened to, as well. What if the whole story had been created for the sole purpose of luring her here so that Stanton's kid brother could finally have his shot at revenge?  
  
Mara furrowed her brow with worry. "I shouldn't have come. The records he sent me were probably forged. I bet this man intends to kill me for what've done."  
  
Luke raised an eyebrow. "And you're afraid?"  
  
"Not really. But I'd feel bad killing him, having—"Mara cut of her words as she saw Luke look beyond her, to the bar's entrance. She slowly turned to follow his gaze, keeping focused in case imminent defense on her part was required.  
  
As she eyed the man coming in casually through the entryway, she instantly realized that her fears were not ungrounded. The man had a blaster in a hip holster, a knife strapped to the inside of his left calf and what appeared to be light explosives attached to his belt.  
  
Well, it had to be him, she thought, straying her eyes for the briefest moment to glance at her watch. Punctual of him, though I don't see why he'd bring so many weapons simply to—  
  
Her hand reached impulsively towards her lightsaber as the man neared. He held up one hand in casual alarm.  
  
"Don't worry. If I had come here to kill you, I would have slid a thermal detonater under the door. No use in coming close enough for you to slice a limb, or maybe a head off. I know how you Jedi are." He inclined his head towards his various weapons. "I'd have come disarmed, but you're not the only threat of decapitation or mutilation that I face whenever I'm in this part of town." He sat down in the seat across from the Skywalkers'. "I'm sure Luke knows what I'm talking about; I think we came here once, back in the old days...remember?"  
  
Luke nodded with near imperceptibleness. "Somewhat. That was a long time ago."  
  
Dash laughed. "You're damned right, it was. Look at you—hardly the countrified kid with mystic pretensions—you went for the whole Jedi thing better than I thought you would. And the husband's role—what ever happened to that other chick? The princess we had to save from old lizard-skin?"  
  
Luke smiled. "My twin sister? She married your old buddy Solo. A while ago—they already have some twins of their own."  
  
Dash whistled. "Damn, he caught a fine one. If I'm not overstepping any boundaries in saying so. Wow." He shook his head. "So they got twins—funny, I'm not seeing Solo as much of a family man, but I guess he'd do alright. Well, not to change the subject so abruptly, but I'm running short on time and all this talk of twins reminded me of why I came here." He took a small datapad out of one of the numerous small pouches attached to his utility belt. He tossed it to Mara, who caught it effortlessly.  
  
"What's this?'  
  
"Your birth record. I figured you never saw it, otherwise you would have known about me a long time ago. There're other docs on there too—nothing too interesting. Or as mind-blowing, I guess."  
  
Mara's face twitched. "I don't believe this—I was always told I was born off world. And I remember saying goodbye to my mother as the Emperor's men took me away."  
  
Dash shrugged. "You were born on Coruscant—not that mother knew. She was unconsciousness and dad was off world, as was Stanton, who was only a little kid anyway. They took away, but they preserved the record, apart from the public ones. But now that the empire's gone—"  
  
"I don't believe it," Mara restated flatly. "And even if I did, what good would it do? My only real parent was the Emperor. And after what I went through with him—it would be hard enough to accept a whole new family without that experience."  
  
Dash looked at her squarely. "I don't really care if you accept either them, or me. I just thought you'd like to know. I'm not saying what you have to make of it."  
  
Mara thought a minute, looking at the record. It was all there; everything official-looking and saying that she was a Rendar, the older of the last two by about three minutes. Apparently, her birth mother had never had the chance to give her a name—Mara guessed the emperor must have given her hers.  
  
But still—documents could be forged. There had to be something more concrete than this. "A blood test. That's what we should do. Just to settle the question—the truth."  
  
Dash shook his head, which, Mara finally noticed, was covered with red hair. It wasn't a deep red, like hers, but a flaming dark orange. Such a small similarity, but yet—"I only have a little time here. I know it doesn't seem very convincing, but I'm not here to convince you of anything. I just needed to do this—to tell you, for whatever reason. It's what mother would have liked me to do."  
  
Mara spoke again, her voice slightly muffled. "Do you have a picture of—your mother?"  
  
Dash flipped out a small holo-transmitter, skimming through some images until he came to one.  
  
It was an old one, not very high quality, but it was in color. The woman was shown completely, from the gilt shoes on her small feet to the long locks cascading to her waist. The hair, Mara noticed, was same the same color as her own—and the face—  
  
Mara gripped the edge of the table as she saw that face, and Luke moved his hand to calm her as he simultaneously noticed what it was that had so shocked her.  
  
Except for the clothes, which were some she would have never chosen for herself, the woman in the holograph may well have been Mara. Her features were identical; her hair was longer, but it was the same otherwise. But the face—perhaps it was merely all this talk of twins which made her think of it, but this woman looked to be an exact replica of the one who now stared at her, slack-jawed with surprise.  
  
Mara recovered quickly, though, and glared at Dash as soon as she was able. "Is this some sort of prank?"  
  
"Watch," he commanded quietly. So she did, and she saw the woman turn to smile at someone outside of the picture. The woman beckoned with one slim, long-fingered hand and was soon joined by a much younger version of the man who now sat, unusually solemn-looking, across from the Skywalkers.  
  
"See, there." Dash's voice was unnaturally soft. "Funny, I never would have cared, but I came across your picture in the news one day—and you reminded me so much of her; I had to search out the rest. That's a laughable, huh? I'm more of a rogue than that Antilles and his entire squadron, but I cared enough about my mother to...well, she was the only woman I ever really loved. I guess that's my excuse for all this." Dash shoved the small holo device into one of his zippered pockets. "Well, that's all really. I'd call you sister, but your face tells me you still don't believe me."  
  
Mara closed her open mouth. "Well." She could think of nothing to say, so she left it at that. What was there to say—what was she supposed to say? She had no earthly clue; perhaps this whole concept of a long-lost twin had once been applied to Luke's life as well, but in a much different way. Perhaps it would have been easier if they'd known each other first, as long as Luke and Leia had—perhaps not. After all, they'd fought on opposite sides of the war—Dash, she remembered vaguely, fought in the Battle of Hoth, even if he wasn't really a Rebel. A merc—well. It wasn't as if she had had a spotless past. The past—well, nobody was left alive who could tell them the truth about that. So why worry about it now?  
  
"Well, I better be going." Dash seemed similarly at a loss for what to do or say. "I guess I'll see you....sometime. Mara Jade Skywalker—I don't suppose I gave you enough reason to add 'Rendar' to that long handle, did I?"  
  
Mara didn't know how to answer that. "Well. Well. If you're in such a hurry—"She wanted to say, "then leave", but something stopped her. Here, at long last was a part of her family—her real family. Not that she hadn't had more than enough surrogates over the years—but still. She couldn't just let him walk away. No.  
  
She leaned forward, letting Luke's hand slip away so that she could grasp Dash's. "What I mean is, I know you're in a hurry—but if you can, don't leave quite yet. I mean—"  
  
Dash's eyes glimmered. "I guess I can stay a little longer."  
  
So there, in that dingy little bar, the only two surviving members of the Rendar clan began to piece together the fragments of their past.  
  
They did not have all the pieces to work with—and, so, the entire story of their parallel lives remained mostly unknown; a drama forgotten after most of its players were dead.  
  
But the past was there nonetheless and was full of more twisted coincidences than either could ever imagine; coincidences that made this chance discovery of their blood relation pale in comparison. 


	2. Pain

Approximately 35-40 years earlier

Coruscant

Deyla Rendar gasped once and promptly collapsed; her sheer, billowy blue gown settling around her frail, though distended, frame. Bent over in pain, she still managed to be, of all things, annoyed—the pain was bad enough, but why now, when she was alone and off-world, waiting in a hotel on her least favorite planet for a husband whose transport had been so conveniently delayed…Damn you, Taden, she swore briefly. At least it wasn't her first; she knew there'd been an end to this massive pain. She could get through this, she could manage without that son of a sandcrawler…her thin frame buckled under the force of another contraction, and she could not tell whether she wanted to scream or cry—maybe both.

She ignored the impulse, bit her lip till blood stained the bone-white floor covering beneath her, and forced herself to crawl out of the room. There weren't any droids inside; hers had been delayed along with the husband that provided them, and she, wife of the owner of RenTrans, could hardly be expected to trust someone else's droids. Being somewhat uncomfortable around aliens—she was hardly a racist, but she did find most of them oddly disturbing in matters of appearance and mannerisms—Deyla had insisted on having human body guards accompany her. Of course, after a bit of a flare-up with the two stodgy Corellians that Taden had given her, they'd been relocated to positions as far from her room as possible—Deyla grimaced at the unpleasant results of her hot temper…well, really, who was to know? She was big as a Bantha, but wasn't due for another month or so—still, Taden would punish them, and then her, for this carelessness…

Impossibly, she reached the doorway. Resting for a moment, her body suddenly contracted again. She whimpered, ashamed of herself as she did so, but she was merely human…

Slowly, painstakingly, Deyla managed to bring herself up to the intercom panel beside the doorway. By that time, her ears were buzzing and her eyes were filling with black glitter at the edges, so that she could not remember what she said—but, somehow, the guards did come in to find her; curled on the floor, pathetic in her sodden gown, and crying for her husband. Or cursing him—characteristically, it was hard to tell which. One of the men gathered her easily into his arms; the other arranged for transport to the nearest medical facility available.

Taden Rendar could hardly help being famous—after founding Corellia's, if not the galaxy's, most profitable shipping corporation at the age of twenty, his name was as famous as his face—which, incidentally, was replicated in a million cheap holograms for the amusement of young humanoid girls. For Taden was a true recipient of the Rendar's genetic blessings: a too-good-to-be-true combination of brains, brawn, and impossible wit—not to mention hair the color of an Alderaanian plain and eyes that would merely reflect the bright-blue intensity of Tatooine's sky at midday. For all this, Deyla was remained serenely stoic when he informed her, in the most casual manner possible, that she was to be his bride. If anything, he was to be thankful for her. As the daughter of a rather prominent member of Corellia's legislature, wealth, power and even good looks failed to impress her much—thanks to her father, she'd grown accustomed to the former; thanks to her mother, one-time "entertainer" Ralia Thriet, she had more than her fair share of the latter.

A supple body, skin so perfect that it looked artificial, red hair that flowed to her feet like a waterfall of flames—Taden had his pick of every beauty on Corellia, not to mention more than a few offworld, but the first time he met Deyla; at some otherwise forgettable high-society function—he'd wanted her more than any other woman he'd yet seen. After creating a monopoly on Corellian trade, with about as much effort as it took others to take a drink of water, creating a monopoly on Deyla Thriet-Kaldae hardly seemed impossible.

So she let herself be conquered—or so it initially appeared. Taden had always guessed that that fiery hair was symbolic of some inner wild streak that her publicly demure manner somehow managed to conceal—but it wasn't until their wedding night that he knew the extent of it. The weeks, months, and years after that provided interesting fodder for Corellia's tabloids, the writers of which were infatuated with idea of stormy relationship between the planet's two undeniably most-attractive humans.

Things quieted down a bit with the birth of Stanton Kaldae Rendar (though Taden had balked at the thought of giving his son the name of a politician, Deyla had insisted), but the years between then, and now had been spotted rather dismally with fights, separations, suspected infidelity, and a general good measure of ill will between two people who, despite their independence, could not live without each other—but insisted, against all reason, that it was possible.

Basically, Taden and Deyla Rendar were in love, but hardly anyone, much less themselves, realized it.

Intellectually, they were evenly matched, physically, none looked too good for the other—their desire for each other, despite all that fueled its ferocity, was undeniable…

Damnable as it was, thought Deyla viciously as they rushed her on some sort of hovercraft—she was too preoccupied with the contractions to notice the type—to the hospital. She remembered, all too well, the evening that had, ultimately, led to this utter agony—in retrospect, the pleasure had hardly been worth it. And his behavior on that day—definitely damnable. To come home after a 'business meeting' with that Ghylia slut—she could taste the whore, that nauseating mixture of too-expensive perfume and too-cheap morals, when Taden came to her bed that night. She'd slapped him, screamed, fought him for daring—_daring_—to come home and think that he could have them both in one night—he did anyway, seeing as how he had twice the heft and strength of his deceptively small-boned wife, and while the surrender to him had been admittedly sweet—it was definitely not worth this price. A price _he_ hadn't been required to pay—

She was in a bed now—good, those fools of guards had managed to get her at least this far. Not entirely useless, like Taden—

No, now what were they saying? She hadn't needed any such drugs when she gave birth to her first son, granted, the pain was near unbearable, but she _would_ live through it—alone, except for these two mindless walking blasters, Deyla needed to have all her senses about her, but the nurses could not, did not hear her pain-torn requests…and, against her will, all Deyla's senses gave way to an impossibly empty darkness…

A/N: Obviously, I made the whole lot of this up—the only name that was possible to find was that of Stanton Rendar, older brother of Dash.


	3. Inevitable Separation

Despite the vicious strength of Deyla's will, she was entirely unconscious by the time the delivery was over. The human midwife—how many humans would entrust these things to aliens or droids?—had given her a sedative earlier. Now, except for the whimpers of the red-headed woman's offspring, all was quiet in the little hospital room. The doctor would be in soon, to check on both mother and child—children.

There'd been two—a girl, who came first, and a boy. The girl was slightly smaller, but otherwise, they looked nearly identical as all newborns, twins or not, have a tendency to do. The midwife noted, with a smile, that they had both inherited Deyla's trademark red hair.

Everyone else was gone—in respects to Deyla's privacy, the guards had been posted just outside the door. Only a youngish woman who bore the title of 'midwife', an unconscious woman, and two brand-new babies.

There was enough time to give them their tests, before the doctor came—the midwife already bathed them, cut and tied the cords—she was a capable young woman; a native of Naboo who'd once been a servant of the senator from that planet. Having been dismissed over something that really was no fault of hers, she'd drifted along the huge, terrifyingly crowded planet, until, somehow, she ended up here. It was a good job; she loved to care for babies—it was so beautiful to see a small, perfectly innocent and pure being—

Sighing, she tenderly wrapped the tiny bodies in warmed blankets. Then, wincing more for their sake than hers, she took a bit of blood from each. With all the wailing that ensued, she was more than a little surprised that Deyla did not emerge from her drug-induced coma.

The blood samples were analyzed by computer—a somewhat older piece of equipment, that predated the newborn Empire. The midwife grimaced a bit at the thought—it was a good thing, after all, that she'd found anonymity here—she'd sooner kill herself than be any associate of that senator-turned-murderer-turned-Emperor. The truth about his hand in the brutal occupation of their homeworld, years earlier, had forever altered her vision of a man she once found admirable.

The computer gave a blip to signal that its job was done. The midwife scanned down the list of results with a practiced eye—she didn't really expect Deyla Kaldae Rendar (who wouldn't have recognized her, with that hair and icy beauty?) to be carrying any serious diseases. All looked to be in order—except—

Odd. In her training, she'd never really figured out what midichlorians were, or how their presence—or absence—affected the health of a child, but a count of them was always included in the blood results. It had never really come up as an issue before, seeing as how, in every birth she'd yet assisted, the count always came up well below the number that indicated some sort of danger. But now—

The boy was a bit high, but nothing to be _too_ worried about—the girl, however…

What to do? She consulted her datapad, which gave her advice that was decidedly bizarre and not particularly comforting. "Any midichlorian count above the standard limit is a danger to the health of both infant and any surrounding lifeform—report to the Imperial Center for Disease Control, Department 459, immediately."

She was automatically hesitant. Who knew what the Imperials might do to this beautiful baby girl—evidently another undesirable? Everyone knew what the emperor had done to other undesirables—and what would Deyla Rendar say? Not that she looked able to say much anytime in the near future, but…

Against all of her warning instincts, the midwife contacted the department listed by hologram. She was greeted not with the expected sight of a harmless-looking civilian working for the government, but rather a hard-looking man in Imperial uniform—being rather uninterested in all matters concerning the military, she could not tell his rank by his insignia.

He looked at her with faintly concealed irritation. "Yes?"

The midwife spilled out her story before she could give herself a chance to rethink her choice.

The official raised his eyebrows and yet again poorly concealed his emotions—this time, of interested surprise. "Really? Well, I advise you not to inform Deyla Rendar of her having a daughter at all—there were no other witnesses, you say?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good. Infants with that condition are known to die within days of birth, so her ignorance will save her some pain."

"What—what will be done with the child?"

"I'll be there in a short while. I'm afraid the exact cause of high midichlorian counts remains unknown, and so the department takes every infant displaying the syndrome…so, that by studying their unfortunate plight, we might stop it from affecting other innocents."

"But what—"

"Your _silence_ will be well-rewarded."

"I can't do this." Her words were whispered, but defiant. She'd easily guessed that the man's flimsy words and excuses were merely a disguise for truth she wasn't deemed privileged enough to know.

"You will. You will find we have persuasive methods. I will be there shortly." And thus, the fate of the girl-child was sealed.

By the time Deyla awoke, the midwife had managed to wipe all the tears from her reddened face—she didn't know, nor did she want to, how the Imperial had gotten past the Corellians at the door, but the awful truth remained—he was gone, with one baby, leaving only one for her to snuggle within its mothers weakened arms.

Deyla, of course, didn't know the difference and she was elated at the sight of her second son. "Dash," she whispered, her blue-green eyes dancing. "Your father's choice, not mine, (her face darkened slightly) but even so—I think it will suit you. And your brother—Stanton will be so, so happy to have a little brother." She hooked one of her slim white fingers on his little hand, delighted at the way he grasped it. "My little Dash."

The emperor was not particularly fond of being interrupted by the trivialities of lower officials, but this announcement from one of his men in a branch of the "Health Department" had fit in oddly with an idea he'd been toying with earlier in the day.

The emperor already had an apprentice, and, though Vader had proved not to be the weak-willed pawn he'd wanted, he had no desire to train another. He had more important work at hand, and Vader would help with it well enough. Still, though, the Emperor knew that even with the destruction of the Jedi, there were force-sensitive children being born daily. The days of slaughter were over; at least, all obvious killing—he could hardly send his men out and have them extinguish every being that had even the potential to become a Jedi. Well, so given a little hard work, he _could_, but what a waste that would be—if only he could turn a few to the dark, not as apprentices, but as some slightly lower sort of tool—like a hand, an extension of himself, to go where he, now the most important man in the galaxy, could not…

Emperor's Hands. The idea intrigued him, but he hadn't yet shared it with any of his confidants—even and especially Vader who, he knew, would most likely be jealous at the very thought of it. Too bad. Palpatine would be a fool to waste these promising resources.

So, he turned to official's hologram with a new gleam in his age-yellowed eyes. "No. As of today, these babies will be my—_personal _responsibility. You will bring this one to the palace."

"_Sir_?"

"You question me?"

"N-no. Only, our prior policy was to inform you, then—"

"Seeing as how I am the source of all new policies and laws, I see nothing questionable about this reversal. You've received your orders."

The holographic figure bowed. "My Emperor."

Sniveling, mindless, with no will of his own—these were the men he'd made his Empire with, and while they had their obvious benefits, they were undoubtedly annoying.

He got up. His room was windowless, for obvious reasons; the only entrance/exit was served by guards who'd sworn blood oaths to him—he positioned himself in front of this doorway; his aged face settling into the emotionless, ugly, yet undoubtedly authoritative.

Moments later, the Emperor was presented with his request—a little wailing bundle that he really had no desire to take into his arms but, almost instinctively, he did anyway. He had no feelings for any human, much less this sickeningly helpless infant, but he could definitely sense her potential. Though she didn't seem to have quite as much possible ability as—say, Anakin, had—she would have been sent to the Jedi Temple, in the times before.

"Good." Somewhat awkwardly, he handed the little bundle back to the man who had brought it.

"What do you want me to do with her?" The official's voice had a high-pitched note of panic. The Emporer noted, with an inner smirk, that the man was afraid he'd be stuck with the task of raising the infant.

"I know one who will care for her." Palpatine was about to dismiss the man before something made him pause; an odd look on his normally expressionless face. "Her mother did not name her?"

"Her mother was never aware of her existence."

"Hmm. Well, in that case, I will take the responsibility upon myself." A moment's hesitation, something the Emperor rarely experienced. "Mara (for the bitterness I will grow in her heart) and—" he peered into her eyes, still blue, as all infants' are. In time, though, they'd probably turn as jade-green as Deyla's. As good a name as any. "—Jade. Mara Jade. That is what I will have her be called."

"As you wish, my Emperor."


	4. Thali

It had been a long time, Thali thought bitterly as the force field twenty feet above her suddenly evaporated into the surrounding shadows. She sat, crouched as she had been for the last half-decade, ruminating over that small, angry thought—the only emotion, the only idea she had permitted herself for as long. Anything more, and she would have gone mad…

A piercing light shone down into the cell abruptly, reflecting hotly off of Thali's shimmering white skin as her thin hands immediately flew to her painful eyes. They had been unused for too long. A loud voice boomed:

"1838439! 1838439! We are sending a guard to remove you from your cell. Do not resist! The guard will be equipped with an electrostaff. Repeat: do not resist!"

Thali now permitted herself to recognize the sour humor in all of this and laugh. The sounds escaping her parched throat and swollen lips did not resemble the humored expression of any normal human—just as her emaciated body, clothed in the filthy remnants of what were once robes, no longer looked anything like a woman's frame. Superstitious idiots. This was another thought; not new, but one she had tried to forget. It was too maddening—to be considered beneath such heretical idiots…

As she limply let herself be taken (what harm greater than neglect, than torture by life, could they do to her? At best, she'd be finally killed), all the rest of her thoughts came trickling back, like the drops of condensation, slowly sliding down the cell walls, that had been her only fluid for years. If she had not been able to hibernate, to heal—but why, why had she tortured herself further, instead of dying in reasonable defiance?

There was no apparent answer, and she moaned, oblivious to anything else that was happening to her.

Days passed. With proper nutrition pumped through her frail veins, Thali began to regain strength, though the ysalamiri by her bed—a creature whose existence she had been made unpleasantly aware of as a padawan years ago, on a mission to Myrkr—prevented her from renewing herself otherwise. Though the last years of seclusion had been unbearable, this new separation from the Force was more agonizing than all of her former privations.

But, she supposed she couldn't blame them. The young men and women—_doctors_ as they flatteringly called themselves, were of the new generation—whether or not they believed was irrelevant. They knew what was acceptable in this new world, as well as they knew what was to be eradicated or feared. She was a witch, a strange, demonically inhuman creature with whom all precautions must be taken.

Thali wondered dimly if they were performing medical experiments on her—what other reason would anyone have for her removal? A Jedi anomaly—broken, and somehow (though miserably) kept alive more by bureaucratic oversight than any good fortune. She'd been arrested for something else—some political agitation while she was in hiding; only later did they find out what she was…

But the details were lost with her years of imprisonment, and her days now were spent resting, not trying to make sense out of the murky horror of her memory.

All sense of passing time had been lost long ago, to help ease the monotony of dark, endless nights. Thali was rather surprised to see herself when, finally strong enough to get up and move around a bit, she was allowed to look into a mirror.

The person there was a woman, not a girl as Thali had remembered herself. Her dark hair was thin, losing its color in places, but that was mainly due to protein-deprivation. Sunlamp treatment had improved the corpse-like pallor of her loose, dry skin, but her eyes seemed to be perpetually sad—angry—hollowly set in a face with too many jutting angles to be deemed pretty. Her thin hand flew up to her eyes, shielding herself from the unfamiliar, strangely adorned skeleton. The attendant nurse, a small dark woman with smoothly braided hair, put an oddly kind hand on Thali's shoulder.

"Listen, I don't know—perhaps it's the way every one feels, but I don't know…I do remember, as a child—I grew up here, on Coruscant. There were Jedi everywhere—knights, our protectors. I remember the wars, the purges…I don't know how much of it you were around for. But now, you should know…you should know…"

Another person entered the room, and both women silently turned. A man with a militaristic bearing and too-conspicuously civilian clothes greeted their gazes with an expression wavering between disinterest and disgust.

"I'm come for her. You've been given your orders."

Trembling, the nurse ducked her head in assent, quickly leaving after one more glance at the patient who had gathered up enough strength to stare at her new captor defiantly.

"So at last, I'm to be brought to trial? But I suppose the charges you could bring up against me are as ancient and extinct as my crime."

"You must be a complete fool to think that you deserve anything short of immediate execution. You've been granted a temporary reprieve—house arrest."

Thali laughed ironically. "Ah—but you destroyed my home."

A pair of cuffs were slapped onto her delicate wrists. "All arrangements have been made. But," the irony in his smile mirrored hers, "There is a slight condition. A slight—duty. One mandated by the Emperor himself."

Thali wondered if she had gone completely insane. "Stop toying with me," she spat.

He continued, unfazed. "There is an infant girl—he wants her to be trained in the ways of the Force. Now, don't get any irrational ideas about trying to make her your padawan, or whatever—he simply has no time to raise something so young, so demanding—and he would rather this menial care be done by someone of _your_ type so that she can glean some basic knowledge of—"

Thali laughed as brokenly as she had when being removed from her cell. "He really thinks any real Jedi could do that—raise him a pawn, another Vader? I am not that mad."

"And he is not that concerned. Only an experiment—but maybe the thought that if your charge turns out to be of no use, she will be destroyed…perhaps that will provide you with some incentive."

And, with that, Thali was dragged from the prison onto a transport.


	5. Families

"He doesn't look a thing like me."

"Thankfully." Deyla leaned back and closed her eyes, twitching her pale lips in good humor. The playful accusation slid off easily—they were in love again, and nothing could be so unpleasant. Deyla laughed.

Her husband smiled. Taden Rendar was in unusually good spirits—while his trademark grin was an inevitable product of his active, constantly conniving mind, there was a rather dull, content look in his blue-smoke eyes, and though he and Deyla bantered, his hand grasped hers in a way more loving than possessive. She was as effusive as ever; glowing proudly over her new son, who was generally red, wriggling, and clamoring for attention. Stanton, who was just at the age where toddlers begin to lengthen into children, sat beside Deyla; nearly lost amidst the excessively plush, duckdown-filled coverlets of her bed. 

Looking at the infant, he was overwhelmed with strange emotions—mainly curiosity mingled with a strange combination of amused disgust. "I thought you said I'd have a brother—to play with." Stanton had hoped desperately for another kid to chase around the mazelike mansion hallways with his toy blaster. The weird little creature in his mother's arms looked more like one of the grotesque off-world pets Taden sometimes brought home for the sole purpose of scaring Deyla.

His mother laughed and hugged the scowling little boy, with hair and features which were, undoubtedly, entirely his father's. "I'll admit, he's not so much fun right now, but trust me—he's a Rendar. He won't be little and helpless for long."

Thali stared at the little roll of blankets with dazed apprehension. Distracted by the surroundings she'd suddenly been thrust into, she looked away from the gurgling, red-tufted little beast on its bassinet, trying to make some sense of them.

The room was not so much a cell as her last dwelling, which, though true, wasn't saying a whole lot either. There were windows—though they were nine feet above the ground, and impossible to see out, the Coruscant daylight hazily filtered through the thick glass, illuminating the sparse furnishings of the living quarters. There was a bed, food storage, the baby's few things, and some archaic looking plumbing, but it was all clean and decently heated, though Thali still shivered—more out of anxious dread than cold. There were no visible guards, but she was sure that there was still some sort of monitoring going on—but the ysalamiri was gone; she could connect with the Force. Of course, there was no risk in this—even in the last, ill-fated days of the Old Republic, Thali had made a name for herself in the less glamorous Jedi arts, particularly healing. Though she was often assigned to tasks where defensive action was necessary, she was never much a fighter.

She looked back to the baby, with its funny, blotched face with its somehow content grimace; a thin finger stuck in its pink mouth. A look of consternation lodged itself in the furrows of Thali's face—it was all too incredulous, too strange and stupid. Of course she was weak, no longer a threat—but why this strange program? Palpatine seemed hardly one to concern himself with _children_ of all things. She didn't want to think of what he had done to bereave the parents of their offspring, much less what kind of monstrosities he intended them to be—a new Sith army?

Thali herself had loved the younglings at the Temple—though she had never had the opportunity to have her own padawan, she had sometimes helped to care for the very little ones. Of course, they had never been quite so diminutive, and so helpless. Upon further inspection of the infant before her, Thali's inexperienced eye ascertained the girl to be of about a few weeks' age. She stood silently, forcing herself to be calm…yes, the girl was strong in the Force—a tiny bundle of potential, still new, unmarred, and growing. Thali continued to stand, motionless until her unshed tears blurred her vision sufficiently to admit them, to let them fall. The woman crumpled onto the floor, shaken and sobbing. What innocence, what beauty was she sacrificing with her compliance? She had let it all be destroyed in herself, so easily…because she had dared to hope.

But no—despite everything, she could feel such a realization, however dimly, emanate from the mere presence of such a child. An emblem of Palpatine's failure—and though his pawn now, a possibility of his downfall—for who could slay the Sith, but one also trained in the ways of the Force? Unlikely as it was, at least there'd be someone (who knew for how many years she'd permitted to raise the girl, and under what circumstances?), trained in such ways, with at least some underlying consciousness of the good it could be used for…

She got up, slowly and painfully. There was a destiny tied to this girl, as there was to every being—and for whatever reason, Thali had been chosen to lay the foundations of it. Gently, fearfully, she picked up the infant, murmuring to it in a broken, but loving voice. The little girl cooed back, blinking her eyes and waving tiny arms. Thali smiled, in spite of herself, soothing the baby with a touch that, in spite of her rough-worn hands was soft, and with thoughts full, at long last, of some sort of peace.

A/N: George Lucas has a way of not realizing how Earth-exclusive his metaphors are; upon digging around in the official online Star Wars encyclopedia and seeing 'duck' listed under the official creatures, I couldn't help making an insignificant reference to the cute little things.


End file.
